


Victim As Eromenos

by Aris Merquoni (ArisTGD)



Category: The Corridor People
Genre: 1960s sexuality, Drugs, Dubious Consent, F/M, Fucking Machines, community: kink bingo, kink bingo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-09-01
Updated: 2009-09-01
Packaged: 2017-10-06 19:54:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArisTGD/pseuds/Aris%20Merquoni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Syrie Van Epp is always willing to help her good, dear, untrustworthy friend Phil Scrotty. Especially when he'll later be useful to her, and owe her a favor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Victim As Eromenos

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the "Fucking Machines" prompt at kink bingo.

With Syrie Van Epp, there was always a plot wrapped inside a conundrum--or a conundrum inside a plot, or one of several things inside another. Phil Scrotty always prided himself on being one step ahead of the plot or the conundrum most days, or at least fast enough that he could be out the back exit when the wrong person tripped over his dustbins. But this time he'd lost one of the threads midway through. There was the giggle juice, the late billionaire, and Kronk's guys, and now he was in Syrie's basement over a table having misled the third, lost the second, and gotten high on the first.

"Y'know, Syrie," he said happily as she wheeled some piece of machinery behind him, "I'm almost glad I never figured out what Mr. Abinforth was working on. If Kronk wanted it so badly, he can have it."

"You mean the aphrodisiac," she said.

"Oh, yeah? This is his juice? This stuff is swell," he said. Then he considered what she'd just said. "Wait, aphrodisiac?"

"Oh, yes," she replied. "But not a normal one."

"I wouldn't know you to get worked up about a normal anything," he said. He propped his arms under his head and tilted his head back a notch more so he could see as she came around in front of him. Glam as always, Syrie was, in a low-cut dress and a scarf wrapped around her hair. "So shouldn't I be more desperate than usual to see your lovely self out of that dress?"

She smiled. "Are you?"

"No more than usual," he admitted. "Though that's quite a lot."

"Mr. Abinforth was a homosexual," Syrie said, ignoring his pass with her usual aplomb. "He was active in the political movement, though not openly."

"Oh, yeah?" Phil said. "I've known some queer guys. Weren't so bad, most of 'em."

"Unfortunately, not many people share your opinion." Syrie shrugged languidly. "Mr. Abinforth's theory was that their hostility stemmed from fear. Specifically, the male fear of being put in the female receptive sexual position."

Something about the way the woman said "female receptive sexual position" was more enticing than it ought to have been. Phil shifted his weight against the table slightly. "Yeah, well, it's a bit of a scary prospect."

Syrie was smiling wickedly, which was how she normally smiled, but still, there had to be a limit. "Indeed it is. Mr. Abinforth believed that getting non-homosexual men to face their fear through--" she paused for dramatic effect, "--desire was the way to reach true harmony."

"Desire?" He pushed himself up, frowning. "Syrie, I don't know what they do in Persia, but I'm a red-blooded American. And I don't want to be--"

Unfortunately at that point his equilibrium gave a lurch as his body let him know in no uncertain terms that it was quite happy to get emdashed, yes please. He coughed and swallowed and said honestly, "I mean, I can get along with men well enough, but I don't want to get sweaty with one, you know?"

"A perspective I happily enough do not share," Syrie said amiably, as Phil attempted to untangle what his lower half was telling him. "But have no fear."

"Oh, I'm trying not to panic," Phil said.

"From your reaction, I gather that calling in one of my servants would be a less than welcome solution?" Phil snorted and shook his head. "Indeed. Then lie down again for one moment."

He was more than happy to comply. The same swallow of Abinforth's concoction that was making him feel tipsy and warm was making it hard to stay upright, anyway. He only felt like complaining when Syrie lifted his hips up and started taking off his belt. "Hey, watch it there."

"The aphrodisiac will remain in your system until you take action," she said.

Phil licked his lips. "You promise you're not going to call some burly henchman?"

"No-one else will enter this room," Syrie promised.

"Okay, then," he said. Syrie'd seen him naked before, of course, and it wasn't like he had anything to be ashamed of, though the table was a little colder than he'd like. She patted him fondly on the ass, which made him snort, then pulled his pants and underwear the rest of the way off.

He heard the squeak of wheels, then, and felt her lining her piece of machinery up with the backs of his legs. With deft hands she pulled his legs a little further apart, strapping his thighs to padded railings with what felt like wide leather belts. She was humming as she adjusted what sounded like a ratchet.

Phil cleared his throat, feeling his mouth suddenly dry. "Um, Syrie?"

"Yes?"

"Y'know, in other circumstances, what you're doing here could be considered--"

"A crime equivalent to rape?" she asked, placing a hand on his hip. "But our life doesn't often afford us such luxuries, does it?"

"No, I guess not," he said. "But, uh, just--it's my first time, so be gentle, okay?"

"With the reverence afforded to a virgin before the caliph," she promised, then flicked a switch.

There was a motorized hum, and then there was a blunt pressure at his ass--and he didn't really have time to think, but he realized very quickly: One, Syrie had him hooked up to some kind of fucking machine, two, there wasn't going to be any negotiating with it, so he was going to have to get used to the idea really quickly, and three, hot DAMN did that feel good. It was only pressing a little before backing off, enough to know that something was there, something mechanical and relentless, slowly moving back and forth in a smooth fucking motion.

After the first few gentle nudges, Syrie asked, "More?"

"I hoped you would say that," he said, and she turned down the speed, but on the next push the blunt pressure forced itself a half-inch further, enough to push him forward against the sudden sharp invasion. "Oh, jeez." He winced again as it pulled away, but on the next cycle it pushed and suddenly slipped slick inside him, and Syrie pulled a lever and it stopped, leaving him impaled.

"How do you feel?" she asked, as he sucked in air and tried to relax. It hurt, but that was fading, and he could hear her ratcheting more gears on the machine. Click click click, promise of more to come. Squeak-ratchet, he could feel the tension through his thighs and all the way down to his toes. His mouth was dry and he swallowed.

"Oh, y'know," he finally said, trying to lighten the mood, "Gaining more appreciation for my fellow man and Mr. Abinforth's complaints. So do I have to..."

Not that he wanted to stop, really. It's just that a man had to keep up appearances.

"I think you'll know when you're finished," Syrie said, and turned the machine back on.

He wasn't prepared for the depth of the first thrust, then the second, then the relentless pace of the next fifteen or so. It felt--oh, fuck, it was impossible to know how he felt, impossible to do anything but feel--good, deep, full. He yelped in surprise, could hear his voice squeaking, and hunched his hips backward without thinking about it.

"Well," Syrie said when his head had cleared a moment and he was just trying to hold it together, relentless motion not letting him--oh, not letting him come down from this terrifying high. "Was Mr. Abinforth's supposition correct?"

"Don't ask me, Syrie," he gasped, "just don't stop this thing, okay?"

She chuckled somewhere above him, but he couldn't pay attention. He felt as though he was being inched forward, the machine pressing deeper and deeper with each relentless thrust. He slid his hand down to curl around his dick, gasped as the friction of his fingers dragged sudden shocks out of his brain to the time of the motion of the piston inside him. He was--fuck--gasping out, biting the inside of his lip, overwhelmed with sensation and trying to keep from breaking down, keep from completely losing it. But the machine, the machine wouldn't fucking stop, and-- and--

"Augh!" he cried out, and several other imprecations, as the almost-painful thrusts pushed him through orgasm spilling sticky over his hand and the table beneath him, and he sucked air for a few seconds afterward before he realized that Syrie had been quick enough on the switch to stop the gadget with him half-impaled.

As soon as he thought it, the piston slid backwards and out, and he winced. "Oh, jeez."

"Feeling better?" she asked.

He took a deep breath. "Yeah, sure, but I could use a wash."

Syrie's laughter was accompanied by her handing him a towel, so he supposed he forgave her. Gingerly, he straightened himself out, head clearing of the dual haze of chemicals and bliss. "Well," he said after he'd gotten himself unstrapped, "that was a new experience."

Syrie raised her eyebrows. "Not too traumatic, I hope?"

"In the end, not too bad," he said, then smirked as she winced at the pun. He looked over at the fairly frightening contraption he'd been strapped into, which was waist-height and menacing even disengaged. "Say, Syrie, I've got one question for you. Why do you have this thing in your basement to begin with?"

When he looked back at her, she was looking inscrutably smug. "Come, Mr. Scrotty," she said, "we have a lot of work to do."


End file.
